Chance Meetings and Ill-Fated Lovers
by ayotofu
Summary: Barry Allen meets Oliver Queen in a coffee shop and things go on from there-except Oliver Queen was presumed dead five years ago after the Queen's Gambit sank and now operates on the Suicide Squad. Olivarry Suicide Squad AU
1. Chapter 1

**Note: This story will probably be something of a monster. It's been in the works for a little while, and it's an Oliver/Barry Suicide Squad AU that will probably kill me a little inside. Also being updated (and farther along) on AO3 (pseud Ayotofu) and tumblr (ayo-tofu). Feel free to come chat with me on tumblr as well! Updates will likely be sporadic and depend on a variety of factors.**

 **Without further ado, here we go!**

* * *

On what would be the day his entire world began tipping sideways, Barry Allen was running late.

That, in and of itself, was far from unusual. Joe called him habitually tardy. Captain Singh called him _this close to getting fired Allen so help me God_. Whatever the case may have been, Barry's feet pounded the cement sidewalk as he pushed through crowds of people on his way to Central City's latest crime scene, steaming hot coffee in hand. Captain Singh wanted him there in five minutes and he was at least ten minutes out.

So it was, perhaps, only to be expected that he would slam into a man (who felt like a brick wall _Jesus Christ_ ) and dump all that steaming hot coffee on his _absolutely fucking ridiculous_ chest.

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry," Barry said, rubbing at the man's thin gray t-shirt awkwardly with a napkin that had once held a bagel. "Do you want me to—I can buy you another shirt real quick."

"It's fine," the man said, his lips pressed into a thin line. Barry finally glanced up and got a good look at his stony face and good god it was even more ridiculous than his chest.

"No, it has to hurt like hell, let me at least get some ice—"

"It's _fine_ ," the man repeated, brown eyes flashing. "Don't worry about it." Then he pushed past Barry and vanished into the crowd.

Barry wound up being a full fifteen minutes late to the crime scene. Captain Singh gave him an earful and he quickly forgot about the man as he went to work.

* * *

As Oliver Queen slipped away from the overly-flustered boy, Waller's voice crackled in his ear. " _You aren't there to socialize, Arrow. Hurry up and get to the rendezvous_."

Oliver knew that, of course, but he hadn't really had much choice in the matter when some kid had run into him and spilled coffee all over his shirt (luckily, he hadn't gotten any on the file tucked into the seat of his pants). But there wasn't much point in telling Amanda Waller that; she was well aware. She just liked to remind him of her power over him. Just like there wasn't any point in telling her that he had to change shirts first. There was very little about him at any point in time that she didn't know.

" _Copy_."

His current mission wasn't exactly typical Suicide Squad fare. Most of the time, they were out of the country, get-in-kill-everyone-get-out kind of missions, not this domestic, extended undercover stint he was currently pulling. But he was the only one on Waller's payroll (if he could call it that, since he was fairly certain he didn't get paid) with such high-level contacts in the Bratva, and she needed intel on one of their members in Central City.

So here he was, living some twisted facsimile of a normal life while working for the Bratva, with colored contacts and dyed hair and an apartment with more mold than food.

He grabbed a shirt from the nearest vendor, throwing a few crumpled bills at the man in the booth before ducking in to the nearest public bathroom to change. The plain gray was swapped for a white shirt with "I LUV CC" written on it in bold black font. Fucking fantastic.

In the end, he was a full twenty minutes late for his rendezvous with Waller.

She raised her eyebrow at his shirt. "Interesting fashion choice there, _Oliver_." He hated the way she said his name. _Oliver_. Like she was rolling it around in her mouth, chewing it a little, and then spitting it out, marking her ownership of him.

"Well, I've really come to appreciate this city in my time here," he said, deadpan. He reached into the back of his shirt and pulled out the file. "This is everything I've learned about Vasily Antipov in the past two weeks."

Waller took the file and began to look through it. "Did you find out his plans yet?"

Oliver snorted. "The man doesn't trust me with his _dog_ , much less his secrets."

"Then you have two more months to gain his confidence," Waller said, "or millions of people will die."

He could always count on Waller's sunny disposition to brighten up his day.

* * *

By mid-afternoon Barry was seriously flagging. He'd lost all his coffee that morning, after all, and he'd been up late the night before doing more of his _investigating_ (Joe liked to call it obsessing). By the time he got off work, he was about ready to pass out, but he still had several hours' worth of files to go over back at home, so he stopped off at Jitters on the way.

And there, waiting in line, was the guy he'd spilled on, in all his _ridiculously chiseled everything dear lord_ glory. He was now wearing an I LUV CC t-shirt stretched tight across his chest and Barry couldn't help but stare.

He spent an embarrassing amount of time (which he would later deny) debating over whether to go up and talk to the guy, try and apologize again, or to just pretend it had never happened. The choice wound up being made for him, however, when Mr. Chiseled (and there was something distinctly familiar about him, like he'd seen him before, but never spoken, like someone he'd gone to school with but who ran in totally different circles) grabbed his coffee, he turned to leave so swiftly that he wound up colliding with Barry, who was still just standing in the doorway like an _idiot_.

And that was how, twice in one day, Barry Allen collided with the same stranger and coffee was spilled.

Except this was fresh coffee, boiling hot, that was on _Barry_ this time, and Barry did not have much in the way of stoicism.

"Jesus Christ!" he screeched, desperately pulling rubbing at his chest—not that it did him any good. If anything, the burning only got worse. "Ow ow _ow_."

"Oh _shit_ I'm sorry," the man said. Around them, people were tittering at the scene and Barry found himself grateful that Jitters was mostly empty at this time of day. The cashier came up to them hesitantly to offer assistance but the man waved her off. "C'mon, let's go into the bathroom and get you cleaned up."

Once they were in the relative privacy of the bathroom, Barry slowly peeled off his shirt, wincing as shiny pink skin was revealed. He took a moment to be embarrassed at his muscle-mass (especially next to a man who looked to have more muscle than Barry had flesh and bones _combined_ ) before Mr. Chiseled was gently wiping at the burn with a wet paper towel.

"You know, in a movie, this would mean we were fated to be epic lovers," Barry said before he was totally conscious of the words coming out of his mouth. Oh _God_ did he really just say that?

The man's mouth quirked up in a small smile. "Well, since we're both men, it would also probably mean that one of us dies tragically in the end."

"I thought that was more for women in love than men."

They both chuckled a little at that and Barry held out his hand for the other man to shake. "I'm Barry. Allen."

Mr. Chiseled hesitated for moment before taking his hand in a firm grip. "Robert. Wilson. Nice to meet you, Mr. Allen."

"Call me Barry," he said. "And back at you."

"Well then, Barry, you can call me Robert. And here," he said, pulling out a couple of crumpled bills. "So you can get a shirt on the way home."

Barry shook his head. "Keep it. Quid pro quo—I ruin your shirt, you ruin mine. We're square."

Robert grabbed the cash and, giving a little wave, headed toward the door.

"Maybe I'll see you around sometime," Barry called after him.

Robert said nothing, but he gave a little smirk in acknowledgement before he left, the door swinging shut behind him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Note: Here's chapter 2. Barry gives Oliver a nickname and this gets closer and closer to a coffeeshop AU. Enjoy! (chapter 3 is already up on AO3 if you're interested)**

* * *

Lasagna, Oliver thought, was not supposed to be crispy, as he swallowed another damn near inedible bite. He hadn't thought it was particularly possible to ruin lasagna so thoroughly, but the restaurant down the street had managed it. Even his school cafeteria food was infinitely better than this—and damn, if those kids from his school could see him now… Oliver Queen, royalty among the rich, choking on overcooked pasta in an apartment roughly the size of his old bathroom.

Not for the first time, he wished he had the time and money to try cooking for himself. But all of his time was devoted to the mission and all of his money went to basic expenses. Most of what he ate these days was take out and ramen; the lasagna was actually supposed to be a treat.

Really, it figured. Today was one of those days where nothing went right. He was having more and more of those days as time went by.

" _Arrow, check in._ " It wasn't Waller on the comms this time, but rather his other handler for whenever Waller wasn't available. He hadn't met them in person yet; all he knew about them was their codename—Harbinger.

"I'm back at the apartment for the night."

" _Contacts?_ "

"Mockingbird at 0923. Anton and Nikolai Babkin, Vasily Antipov, Alyona Vanzin, all from 1004 until approximately 1700 hours. The cashier at Jitters at 1732 hours—nametag said Gabby. Whoever answered the phone at Mario's at 2223. The cashier working at Mario's at 2249—no nametag." He sighed. Barry Allen wasn't someone he wanted ARGUS to know about; two run-ins in one day would surely pique their suspicions. It had for Oliver, after all, but two minutes of conversation was enough to convince him that Barry Allen was not a threat. But Waller would be much harder to convince, and she already knew that someone had spilled coffee on him—but maybe not about the second run-in? Where he'd actually learned Barry's name? He'd turned off the comms by then, and there were no security cameras in Jitters. It was risky, but…

"Someone ran into me on my way to meet Mockingbird at approximately 0900. Spilled coffee on my shirt and apologized. I left the scene almost immediately. No further contacts."

Oliver waited with bated breath for Harbinger's response.

" _Copy. Anything else to report?_ "

"No."

" _Next check in tomorrow at 0600._ "

"Copy." He flicked the comm off in his ear and removed it, heaving a relieved sigh and placing it on the counter. He wasn't particularly tired and he knew he wouldn't be able to sleep any time soon, but with nothing else to do, he lowered himself onto the sleeping bag in the corner of the room and prepared himself for a long night.

* * *

Barry had barely sat down with a wince as the still-tender burn twinged and an exhausted sigh before there was a knock at his door. Heaving himself to his feet and shuffling over to the door, he looked through the peephole to see old Ms. Cavendish standing there with a tray of cookies.

Loretta Cavendish was one of the most _interesting_ people he'd ever met: some odd amalgam of the most stereotypical old person traits one could imagine and yet she led the life that Barry could only hope to lead when he was her age. She regularly brought him home-baked goods as a bribe to get him to come help her with her electronics, but then at 80, she'd had both hips and knees replaced just so she could keep dancing with her dance troupe. Up until she'd moved to Central three years ago, she'd been an avid gardener and beekeeper. She was a tall, but pudgy woman, her dark skin drooping off her like melting wax. She'd never married—as far as Barry knew, she'd never looked at anyone in a remotely sexual or romantic way her entire life ("Romance is cute and all," she said once when he asked her about it, "but I've never had much interest in it. Always had something more important to take care of. Like my bees." She'd laughed a little, then—"I think you kids have a word or two for it—asexual? Aromantic? I don't know; I've never cared much for labels myself.")

"Hey there, Ms. Cavendish," Barry said as he opened the door, pinching the bridge of his nose and trying to conceal a yawn. "What can I do for you?"

"Well, Barry, I saw you come in and I had just baked this batch of nice chocolate chip cookies and I thought, 'that nice young man looks like he could use a pick me up!' so I brought some over." Ms. Cavendish always did this: she presented the baked goods as being a gift completely independent of her request for help. Then she got a good look at him. "What happened to your shirt?"

Barry had forgotten he was still wearing the shirt Robert had spilled on. "Oh, someone spilled some coffee on me." At her suddenly angry face, he cut off what he was sure would be a well-intentioned rant on his behalf, "He apologized and cleaned me up and besides, I spilled on him first."

She gave him a look that meant she didn't quite believe him but let it rest, handing the platter of cookies over to him.

"Thank you, they look lovely," Barry said. He thought back to the piles and piles of work waiting for him back in his room and mentally groaned even as he spoke, "Is there anything I can help you with this evening?"

"Now that you mention it…" she said, green eyes twinkling, "I'm trying to get one of those Facebook whatchamacallits and I could use some youthful assistance."

He took a moment to process what she'd said. "Accounts? Facebook accounts?"

"Yes. It's the social media for old people, right?"

"Alright, it should only take me a minute."

All told, it took him about thirty minutes after he'd gone over to her apartment (the woman was 82 and she lived on the third floor all by herself) because Loretta kept asking him to go back and explain exactly how he'd done everything he'd done and then she wanted to do it herself. Just when he was finally about to leave, she called him back.

"Barry, wait! I have something for you." She shuffled into her kitchen while Barry waited alone in her living room.

"Ms. Cavendish, I've got a lot of work to get to—"

"Found it!" she interrupted his attempt to extract himself from her presence as she came back into the room and thrust a tube of some sort into his hands. "It's ointment. For that coffee burn that's had you wincing all night. Now go get your work done." She sent him off with a wave.

Later that night, as he took a bite of her gooey and delicious cookies, he couldn't help but think he preferred crisper cookies, like his mom used to make.

* * *

Oliver loved Saturdays.

The Bratva didn't exactly operate on the standard work week, but he generally wasn't expected to do anything for them then so it was like a day off. A day where he could _read_ (and who knew that reading would become a luxury for him), or _exercise_ or _relax_ a little (not that he ever really relaxed).

On this particular Saturday, Oliver was in a corner booth back at Jitters. He had four different coffee shops that he went to for security reasons and by all rights he shouldn't have been back there again so soon after such a public incident, but it was the only one without security cameras and he desperately needed a few hours without feeling Waller's watchful eye on him (not that it ever went away, really; he had the damn bomb in his head to prove it).

"We've got to stop meeting each other like this."

Oliver looked up from the book he was reading to see Barry Allen, standing over him with his arms crossed and a cheeky-ass grin on his face. "At least neither of us has any coffee this time."

"That is true. And might I ask," Barry said, sitting down across from Oliver without further preamble, "what are you doing in a coffee shop if not buying coffee?"

Oliver raised an eyebrow at him. "Reading," he said, holding up his book with one hand.

The other man ( _man_ was something of an exaggeration—seriously was he even _twenty_?) looked at him expectantly, as though waiting for him to say more. Oliver returned to his book, smirking a little at his outraged huff. "You're not gonna ask _me_ why I'm here?"

"I have a feeling you're going to tell me anyway."

"It just so happens that I'm here visiting my best friend," Barry said as though Oliver hadn't even spoken. "She's a waitress, working right over… there." He pointed at a beautiful black woman chatting amicably with a couple of her customers.

"Isn't it rude to point?"

"I wouldn't know. What are you reading?"

Oliver held up the book so Barry could read the title.

"To Kill a Mockingbird. That's a great book." Barry paused, again with expectation on his face. When Oliver said nothing, he laughed. "You're not much of a talked, are you, Rob?"

"… _Rob_?"

"You don't like it?"

"Just call me Robert."

"What about Bob?"

"No."

"Robby?"

" _No_."

"Bobby?"

"No matter how many variations of Robert you propose, my answer won't change."

Unsubdued, Barry thought for another moment, then snapped his fingers in realization. "I've got it! _Bobbo_."

Oliver stared at him for a long moment. "I changed my mind," he said slowly. "From now on you can call me Mr. Wilson."

"Whatever you say, Bobbo."

Oliver couldn't hold back a groan. Barry grinned.

"I think this is the start of a beautiful friendship."

Oliver hadn't laughed like that in a long time and soon he and Barry lapsed into easy conversation.

* * *

"Who's the hottie?" Iris asked when Barry came back over to see her almost half an hour later.

"Robert Wilson," he said, throwing a look back over his shoulder at the other man, still reading his book. His thin jacket had seen better days, and there were dark rings around his eyes that looked like they had been etched into his skin. "Could you do me a favor?"

"If you tell me what it is."

"Now don't overreact, but… Could you…" he hesitated, knowing exactly how Iris would react and not looking forward to it, before plowing on, "maybe send him over a coffee? I'll pay for it, but don't let him know it's from me. Like wait 'til I'm gone and then tell him it's on the house or something."

Iris opened her mouth wide. "Does someone have a _crush_?" she teased.

"No!"

"You _do_! Oh Barry, this is so exciting!"

"No I _don't_ Iris. I just—he looks like he could use some coffee. And he seems like someone who wouldn't accept it from me. That's _all_."

Iris just laughed and patted his shoulder. "You're so easy to tease, Bare. Seriously though," she said with a brilliant smile, "I think it's a really sweet thing to do. And don't worry, I'll make sure he doesn't know it was you."

"Thanks Iris," he said. "I'm sorry; I know I didn't end up hanging out with you much but I've actually gotta run—got some more work to do, but I'll see you tomorrow for dinner."

"Go! Do your work!" she said, giving him a little push toward the door. "See you later."

Barry took one last look at Robert, sitting alone with his book, before heading back to his apartment.


	3. Chapter 3

**Note: Here is chapter 3, wherein, for the first time, Barry and Oliver do not interact but a lot of other things happen. As always, please know that this story is on AO3 and is updated more quickly there. You can also read it or just come chat with me at my tumblr, username ayo-tofu.**

* * *

"Nikolai tells me that Anatoly speaks very highly of you," Vasily said, rubbing a hand across the patchy stubble on his boyish face. All in all, he didn't cut a very impressive figure: small, soft, with downy hair and a pitiful beard that looked like it belonged on a fifteen year-old, not a middle-aged man and the head of the Central City Bratva. He wore thick-soled boots which added about an inch to his height, but Oliver still towered over him by a full head. The slight man had called Oliver over as he, Anton, Nikolai, and Alyona were in the middle of preparing a load of cocaine to be shipped, which he couldn't help but be weirdly grateful for; drug-runner for the Russian mob was never in his top three career choices and the less time he spent actively participating the better.

"Yes."

Vasily and Anatoly were not friends—in fact, Oliver hadn't even had to lie (much) about his mission to get Anatoly's support. He did not know the reason for their feud, nor did he care. What was important was the fact that aligning himself too closely to Anatoly would definitely undermine his attempts to gain Vasily's trust.

"You don't sound particularly enthusiastic about that."

"I saved his life once, and in return, he was… useful in getting me here."

"The admiration is not mutual, it would seem," the man said with a simpering smile, picking dirt out from under his fingernails with a pocketknife. "Now, how long have you been with us in Central?"

"A few weeks."

"And how long have you been with our organization?"

"I first met Anatoly a few months ago, but this is the first position I've had within the organization." The truth of it was that he'd spent a fair amount of time in Moscow with Anatoly the year previous, but since Vasily was planning on betraying the Bratva, the fewer attachments he appeared to have the better.

"Well, Mr. Wilson, I may have special job for you. One that, if completed, will give you little extra…" he said, rubbing his thumb and fingers together in the universal symbol for money. Then he pulled out a pen and a slip of paper and quickly jotted something down. "Meet me at this restaurant tomorrow at seven and we can discuss details. Oh, and be sure you dress _appropriately_." Oliver looked down somewhat self-consciously at his grungy shirt and a jacket that could be charitably described as worn-out. "Now, in the meantime, you have job to do, yes? Get to work."

Great. Back to his new and exciting career as a drug dealer.

* * *

The next time Iris saw Robert Wilson, she almost didn't recognize him. For one thing, none of his clothes had any holes; in fact, he was dressed resplendently in a tailored suit which accentuated his musculature. His hair looked cleaner, his stubble less scruffy, his teeth whiter.

But none of these changes had her doing a double-take so much as the stiffness of his shoulders and the knot in his jaw and the terrifying, utter, blankness in his eyes. This was a far cry from the man she'd watched joking with Barry just a couple days ago, who had refused the free coffee with a soft "No thank you," but gave in when she insisted. This man seemed almost sinister, more automaton than person.

But she was a waitress. She had to smile and act natural.

"Well, you're certainly dressed up," she said by way of greeting as she came up to get his order. "Hot date?"

His little smile did nothing to lessen the tension of his jaw but it did soothe Iris for reasons she couldn't quite explain and all of a sudden she knew, with startling certainty, that he was just as human as she. And she relaxed back into her normal self.

"Business dinner," he corrected her. He took a moment to consider, as though unsure if he should say the next part. "Not looking forward to it."

"I don't think anyone looks forward to those things."

He chuckled. "Well, really, it's more like an interview."

"Best of luck, then. Hopefully you'll get the job and you can dress like this all the time!" She pulled out her order pad before he could respond. "Now, are you here for coffee or for Barry?"

Damn, but his flabbergasted face was actually pretty cute. He and Barry would be the most adorable couple.

"Just—a coffee. Black," Robert ground out.

"Coming right up," she said with a wink. Oh, this was going to be fun.

* * *

Oliver _really_ needed to stop going to Jitters.

Not only did _Barry_ recognize him, but now Barry's friend Iris had too. If Waller ever found out, both of them would probably die in a suspicious car accident and he really didn't think he could take any more innocent blood on his hands. So it would be best for everyone if he never showed up there again. Save a lot of heartbreak.

Even as he ran through all the reasons why he shouldn't go back to Jitters any time soon, he knew he would disregard them. Because the idea of having one part of his life, even just an acquaintance or two at the coffee shop, that Amanda Waller didn't control, was simply too enticing. He just had to hope he could manage it.

Ah, who was he kidding? This would all blow up in his face sooner or later.

He kept a careful pace toward the restaurant—fast enough that he'd get there with time to spare, but slow enough that he wouldn't have any sweat stains on the suit ARGUS had had made for such an occasion. Harbinger was his handler for tonight's meeting with Vasily, and he heard the purposefully neutral voice asking him to check in just as he slipped the earpiece in and turned it on.

"On route to the restaurant."

" _Copy_."

The place was called _Trattoria Giorgio_ and the menu in the outside window did not show prices. Oliver could only hope Vasily would pay for his meal.

Vasily had insisted that they not talk business until they had finished eating, which just meant that the dinner was far more drawn out than Oliver wanted it to be.

Finally, Vasily heaved a satisfied sigh and threw his napkin down on his empty plate. "Now," he said, rubbing his hands together, "to business.

"First, you must understand: what I am about to say, no matter your response, must never be repeated. You have nothing to gain from spreading it around because no one in our Brotherhood will accept your word against mine and you have _everything_ to lose. Do I make myself clear?"

Someone, at some point, must have told Vasily that he was intimidating and Vasily must surely believe it. There was no other way that he could take himself so seriously.

Oliver simply nodded.

"Good. Second, understand that this very lucrative job offer, one that will allow you to retire to your own personal island if you so desire. You should feel honored that I am offering it to you."

He had a piece of spinach in his teeth and a dab of tomato sauce on his cheek. Oliver debated the pros and cons of letting him know for a second before deciding to see how long it would be before the other man noticed.

"Now, I have old friend, works in genetics lab. Has access to something that lot of people will pay billions for." His tongue had dislodged the spinach, but the tomato was still there.

"Say I'm interested. What would you need me for?"

"I am very busy man. It will be ready in two months' time, but I will be in Moscow then. You must pick it up and hold it until I return. Is very simple, and yet I pay you ten percent."

It was more likely that Vasily just wanted Oliver to be the fall guy in case anything went wrong and the Bratva found out. The organization wasn't particularly moral, but they did draw lines and Vasily's plan would cross pretty much all of them.

"Can I have a day to think on it?"

"Of _course_! Take all the time you need." For the first time, just when he was trying to be genuine, Vasily actually sounded somewhat sinister.

"Out of curiosity," Oliver said, forcibly keeping his tone light, "what exactly is it that I would be getting?"

"Ah ah," Vasily said, wagging his finger in admonishment. "I will tell you that once you need to know, not before."

Once he got back to his apartment, Oliver turned his comm off and threw up in his toilet bowl.

* * *

"Did I ever tell you that I was almost married once?" Ms. Cavendish asked as Barry showed her how to look up her old friends on Facebook (and enemies, it turned out; "Find Roger Johnson," she'd said at some point. "I wanna see if that asshole has kicked the bucket yet.")

"No," he said, surprised. "I didn't think that was really your thing."

"Oh, it definitely wasn't. But the man was one of my best friends, and he was in love with me. And I—well I didn't want to marry him, but I did want a kid. I didn't really understand how that worked, though; I thought that once you got married, kids just kind of _appeared_ when you wanted them. No one had ever really explained it to me." At Barry's laugh, she _whapped_ his arm lightly. "Don't you be making fun of me, Barry Allen."

"I'm sorry," Barry said, choking back another guffaw. "Please continue."

Ms. Cavendish gave him another suspicious look. "Well, I found out the truth before we got married, thankfully. And I told him that I wanted to break it off, figuring I'd just adopt a kid instead."

"Did you?"

"Eventually, yes. They weren't eager to let a single black woman adopt, but I kept at it and I got my boys," she said. "Twins. John and Tommy. Best damn kids you'd ever meet. John was loud and sometimes troublesome, but he had a good heart. Tommy… Tommy was a lot like you. Goofy, a little awkward at times, and the sweetest boy in the world."

It was a troubling use of past tense and Barry dreaded the question he knew he had to ask. "What happened?"

"Their numbers came up and—they left for Saigon and they—I never saw them again." Loretta sighed. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to be such a downer, it's just… tomorrow's their birthday. And I just miss my boys."

Barry cleared his throat. "I'm sorry."

They spent a moment in awkward silence before Loretta leaned over and poked at the computer screen. "Is that Gloria Danforth? That bitch always made fun of my hair. What the meanest thing I can do to her on here?"

Barry could feel the whiplash from that change of subject. "Uh, you can block her but that's about it."

"Can I send her a nasty message?"

"I'm pretty sure that's a bad idea. Maybe you should just let your grade school grudges go?"

Ms. Cavendish fixed him with a hard stare. "Fine," she said slowly. "I'll just 'block' her. Whatever that means."

This was going to be a long night.

* * *

"So," Iris said as she wiped down the counter, "your cute friend was here the other day."

"My who?" Barry asked.

"Robert Wilson! You know, chiseled like a marble-fucking-statue, wears a ratty jacket, likes To Kill a Mockingbird?"

"Iris, I've spoken to him twice; please don't read more into this than there is."

Iris waved his comment off and plowed on. "Anyway, he was here, which makes this three times in the past week."

Barry narrowed his eyes at her. "Where are you going with this?"

"Well, clearly he likes this place. And I know I'd certainly like it if you stopped by more often. Who knows? You might just bump into him again." She winked at him.

He pursed his lips. "Iris, are you sure this is a good idea?"

Iris stopped wiping and looked Barry straight in the eye. "If you're asking if I think he's the one for you, then I have no idea. But Bare—you've only ever had one relationship and I think it's time you put yourself out there a little more. So as your best friend, I'm telling you to try flirting a little with the cute guy in the coffee shop and to just see where it goes."

The door opened and a couple walked in, sitting at a table in Iris's section. Moving away to take their orders, she paused to give Barry's arm a little squeeze. "Think about it," she said.

He didn't doubt that he would.


End file.
